


Lip Service

by Baneberry



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Kink Meme, Lipstick & Lip Gloss, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Threesome, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-21
Updated: 2014-11-21
Packaged: 2018-02-26 11:45:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2650841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baneberry/pseuds/Baneberry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Just thought the paint would add a little extra spice for when we're 'facin'. Foreplay an' junk."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lip Service

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for this tfanonkink request: http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/13205.html?thread=14842261#t14842261
> 
> Hope it works for you.
> 
> FYI, my writing game's a little off, and editing it while fatigued means icky annoying grammar errors might be lurking. My apologies.
> 
> Edit: changed the title; was bugging me too much, bah.
> 
> [Tumblr link](http://captainbaneberry.tumblr.com/post/103191068323/cool-yellow-and-red-maroon-that-should-do-3436): because a reblog is always appreciated! （●>ω・）ﾉ

It took Krok a good, solid minute to stare and puzzle over what he was seeing (he was a brilliant strategist, but this...) before he finally asked, "What are you two doing?"

Misfire and Fulcrum turned surprised optics onto Krok standing at the open doorway. The open doorway to his private suite, to be exact. Misfire still gripping Fulcrum's chin, holding the strange silver tube to his mouth.

"Heya, boss," Misfire beamed, and his lips were a... warm red. "We were waitin' for you. Took ya long enough!"

Krok cocked an optic ridge, head tilting. Fulcrum's lips were also painted, only a much brighter, vibrant shade of yellow that went rather well with his paint scheme. "May I ask why?" he asked.

"No reason," Misfire chuckled, shrugging. "Just thought the paint would add a little extra spice for when we're 'facin'. Foreplay an' junk."

Krok stared, deadpan. He pulled this off rather well with only optics and brows. "... In my quarters."

"Well, yeah. Figured you'd like to get fragged in your own room. But, I mean, if you want to take it to my room, Hell, we can--"

Fulcrum finally pushed himself free at the growing look of alarm on Krok's face. "Sorry, it's stupid," he apologized, "I told Misfire it was stupid, and--" But before he could wipe the lipstick off with the back of his hand, Krok raised his and stopped him.

"Wait," Krok said, and Fulcrum looked up, blinking. The paint gave the illusion of fuller, almost succulent thick lips without going too overboard.

Misfire was grinning victoriously at Fulcrum. The pinhead should have known better from the start there were methods to his madness.

"... Do you... still want to... interface?" Fulcrum asked since Krok was just staring at his mouth inquisitively.

Misfire winked and blew Krok a kiss, avoiding touching his plump painted red lips. "C'mon, you big ole naughty Decepticon; we'll show ya-a good time."

Fulcrum stopped before he could plant his face, embarrassed, in his hands. Didn't want to smear the make-up. ... That made him more ashamed, actually. But it'd become very obvious that Krok was interested in the proposal. He could feel the captain's EM field from here, warming up as a minute charge started to flicker at the bottom of his spark.

But, seriously, Fulcrum really did wish Misfire would stop gloating and erotically posing. "Overboard," he growled lowly, but Misfire didn't care, just stretching out on Krok's berth, stroking a finger under his chin, practically shouting, "Look at me, look at my lips, are you not impressed? Are you not aroused? My raw magnetism is overwhelming; I understand if you are speechless, I would be, too."

Finally, Krok stepped over, off the spot he'd been melting into, placing a fist to his maskplate to clear his throat. It'd been a habit he picked up somewhere along the line, but nobody questioned where, when or why. Krok took another step forward; the door shut behind him. Almost dramatically; a decision had been made.

No point of return beyond here.

"What did you have in mind?" Krok queried. He steadily cruised toward his berth, hands behind his back, one gripping tensely at his wrist. He needed to remain composed, though his energy signal was practically broadcasting a ship-wide alert that, yes, hello, this is your captain speaking, and _guuhhnn_.

Misfire drew slowly from the berth with a grace that Fulcrum did not think the mech was capable of. He slid his hands up Krok's face, pulling him down, down, down, closer to his lips but never, ever touching. Always teasing on that edge. And, with elegance enhanced by that lovely shade of maroon, he said huskily, "Pounding you into the berth."

Fulcrum might have died then and there, but Krok's field was reaching and sinking into his, receiving arousal by proxy. Not that he was protesting. He felt a ticklish flicker in his spark chamber, and then Misfire had him by the arm, tugging him over.

Misfire cast Krok one last smolder before letting him go, instead taking Fulcrum by the cheeks and pulling him into a kiss. It was a slight surprise at first, but Fulcrum quickly adjusted; letting that heat welling in his chest dictate his actions. Found it was an easy fit once he let any lingering shame go.

Plus, Misfire wasn't too bad a kisser. Couldn't shoot a gun straight to save his life, but he knew what he was doing with his lips and tongue just fine enough. And Krok was left to watch them, that charge growing; optics always on their melding, meshing lips, occasionally catching a peek of tongues. Their lipstick started to smear, but it didn't take away any of that pressure weighing down on his spark. Nor the tightness forming behind his panel.

Misfire broke the kiss a minute later. Fulcrum's head felt heavy, optics half-lidded, and he almost mechanically swept in for another. He saw flecks of yellow on the red paint, some of it smudged at the corner.

"Just like we planned, hero," Misfire whispered against his lips.

It took Fulcrum a moment, but-- He watched as Misfire pulled Krok down again, this time kissing him on the maskplate. Krok closed his optics, inventing; his engine growled, lowly, the feel of that paint so nice and thick on his mask. His knees locked when Fulcrum was kissing him, too; two hungry, lovely mouths pampering the plate, marking him in shades of yellow and red.

Krok didn't open his optics, vaguely heard someone moving aside, shuffling. Then Misfire had him by the arm, and with a jerk, easily spun the shocked captain around. Krok's optics snapped open wide; he barely realized what had just happened before he was sitting in Misfire's lap.

"Wh--"

Fulcrum, per instructions, spread Krok's legs by the knees, crawling between them; he pressed his palm over the heated codpiece, and Krok's engine gave another low whine.

"We've been practicing, so this should be _awesome_ ," Misfire noted, mouth next to an audiol.

Fulcrum gave an edge of the panel a very small tug, and that was all it took to open. Beads of lubricant fell free. Fulcrum gave Krok a few seconds to prepare himself--just a few beats and pulses--before pushing a finger inside the channel; Krok winced, slick walls clenching around the digit for only a moment before relaxing again. At ease, Fulcrum carefully slid in a second finger, started working them in scissoring motions.

Krok whimpered.

"Not bad, right?" Misfire snickered, watching Fulcrum work with bright, bright optics. 

"If it hurts, just tell me to stop," Fulcrum said. The fingers curled up, hooked against the roof of the channel.

Krok's thighs quivered. "N-No..." he croaked. "D-Doesn't hurt..."

Fulcrum rubbed the underside padding of his fingers against sensitive mesh, finding a cluster of nodes. He gave them an experimental push; not too hard, not too light, and Krok gave a full body twitch. That was a good reaction, so he did it again. More pressure, this time, just barely kneading. Krok fell forward with a loud groan, legs falling wider apart. 

Even better reaction.

Fulcrum smiled. Had to admit, it was kind of nice seeing Krok like this. He understood how it was being so tightly-wound, always on guard--and just how wonderful it felt when you finally let go and relax. Lubricant began to seep onto the berth, puddling around him; Fulcrum casually pumped his fingers inside the channel, hitting that cluster each time, and each time Krok whimpered or even hiccuped.

Good enough, he figured.

"All yours," Fulcrum said, withdrawing his fingers and sitting back.

Krok slouched forward, vents hitching, optics half-lidded and dim. He stared at his thighs, shivering, felt that hollow emptiness and swollen heat spread inside his channel. He didn't know what they had planned, but Fulcrum's painted smirk was something the Scavenger leader had never seen before. He liked it; very much so, if the obscene amount of lubricant he was leaking was indication enough.

But to be fair, Fulcrum's smirk had a little help from his fingers.

Krok almost made an undignified squeak when Misfire lifted him off his lap; just a little, just the right amount of room, and Krok invented, heavily, preparing himself. He might have leaned forward a little, somewhat hoping the wanton invitation was lost on his comrade. Maybe he'd be ashamed of his neediness later, but not right now.

Misfire grinned toothily. Nope, the offer was not lost on him. Krok first felt the unit slide against the small of his back, leaving behind a strip of transfluid. Misfire swept and rubbed his fingers around the wet, outer rim of Krok's channel, Krok falling forward another inch. He stroked and pumped his unit once, twice, three times in his slick fingers, that grin widening.

"Hey," Fulcrum growled before Misfire could get lost in his own self-servicing.

Misfire tittered. "Oops, sorry."

Krok wasn't sure how he felt about this, but kept his mouth, so to speak, shut.

Misfire hooked his fingers around Krok's hips. "Permission to board, sir," he leered.

"Did you really--"

But Krok's loud, strangled moan as Misfire carefully, slowly pressed himself inside his channel quickly replaced the second-hand embarrassment with a jolt through Fulcrum's groin. Krok threw his head back, inventing sharply, as Misfire continued pushing.

"You--you're really warm," Misfire groaned, relishing all that mesh clenched around his unit, "I--I mean, y-yeah, you're w-warm, but I mean... _really_ warm."

"Mis... Misfire..." Krok choked.

"Yeah?'

"Stop... stop talking."

"Oh." Misfire smirked. "Right."

Fulcrum watched, awed and a little too overheated, as Misfire withdrew his unit from Krok's channel. Right to the head before he thrust inside again, and Fulcrum yelped at the wonderful cry his leader made. Misfire continued riding into him, the first few strokes slow and calculated.

Fulcrum was just about to open his own panel and take off some of the edge of that charge before Misfire clenched Krok's thighs, slid him back, and presented him to the K-Class Decepticon. Fulcrum's optics nearly short-circuited at the sight of Misfire's unit pumping in and out of their commander's channel.

"Get to work, pinhead," Misfire sneered.

No need to tell him twice. Fulcrum scrambled forward, sharing that neediness in his leader's field. He ground his hand into the codpiece, fingering it open, and immediately Krok's pressurized unit almost sprang free. Fulcrum shuddered, eagerly wrapping a hand around the base.

Krok winced, and now his attention was on the mech between his legs.

"Watch 'im, boss," Misfire chuckled against the side of his head, snapping his hips extra hard as an incentive.

It was a little hard to concentrate, all things considered, but then Fulcrum was bowing down, taking the head of Krok's unit in his mouth. Working down, down, and it wasn't entirely the feel of his mouth clenched around his unit, or the fact he was brushing against strained intakes that had Krok shivering and whimpering.

Rather, it was the way his lips--yellow, smudged with little streaks of red--stretched around him. The way they pulled as he started sucking, leaving behind transfers of that vibrant paint along the way. Fulcrum slipped easily into his role, pumping the unit in his mouth as far as it could go, rhythm building to almost match the cord thrusting relentlessly inside Krok's channel. His hand stroked the base, leaving no spot untouched for what his mouth and throat could not take.

Krok whined. This was all becoming a little too overwhelming. He sunk back against Misfire's chest, bracing hands against the legs boxing him in. He rocked his hips in little spasms, pushing deep into Fulcrum's throat, brushing past tubing, thrusting back down now to Misfire's unit; each rise and fall a wonderful reward. Hands smoothed up his torso from behind, digging into seams on his chest, probing into circuitry, and Krok heaved, curling up into those exploring, inquisitive digits.

"Switch!"

Krok grunted, optics popping open; he was suddenly being manhandled in a different position, too weak to fight back. No reason to, anyway; just... threw him off a moment. Fulcrum was laying on the bed now, and two pairs of hands were grabbing, pushing at armor and tugging down into seams, and--

Fulcrum gasped in tandem with his captain, seating his erect unit inside the channel. Krok fell forward, only for Misfire to catch him, push him back against Fulcrum. "S-Sorry," Fulcrum whispered, his optics flickering.

"Pfft," Misfire scowled, hands resting against Krok's lubricant streaked thighs, "I made 'im all nice and warm and wide for you." He looked up at Krok, staring down at him, speechless, cries trapped in his vocalizer. "That's gratitude for ya, right, boss?" And he smiled, wide and playful, making sure his commander's gaze was locked on his still very pretty painted lips. "Ah, well."

Krok bounced in Fulcrum's lap, the K-Class Decepticon making much louder noises. "Mis--fire, p--"

"I know, I know," Misfire scoffed. "Shut up, yadda yadda." And without warning, he bent forward, taking Krok's unit almost whole in his big blabber mouth.

Krok keened, hips snapping against Misfire's face. Misfire just smirked, sending little vibrations in between each hollow suck. He stopped after a few pumps to nuzzle cheek and nose to the unit, purring deep in his throat. "But, I mean, this was a pretty good idea, right?" he asked, and planted a pretty red kiss on the cord's head.

Krok latched onto Misfire's head. Held him in place before thrusting back inside his mouth. Misfire made a comical gagging noise before adjusting. Krok closed his optics, head lulling back; his spark was pulsating a mile a minute, energy building and building.

Fulcrum was practically panting; dropped his forehead against Krok's back, long, skinny arms wrapped around his captain's hips for leverage. He could feel overload fast approaching, and his pumps inside Krok were faster now, more desperate. Misfire happily went about his mission, one hand gripping a thigh as the other jerked himself off.

All and all, a pretty even balance of power and pleasure for everyone involved.

Krok cracked open one optic before he overloaded. Saw Misfire's maroon lips, the paint at one corner smudged back along his jawline, and-- Krok stiffened, backstrut ramrod straight; Fulcrum squeaked as his channel clenched around him momentarily. Misfire slid his lips back on the unit, stopping at the head, transfluid pouring down the back of his throat. More of it gushed from the tiny, open channel slits around Fulcrum's deeply seated cord, and that might have been enough--just two more shallow pumps, and the quivering mesh walls and warm transfluid had him overloading.

Krok's spent charge fizzled and popped, settling; he grimaced at the feel of the transfluid filling him. Both mechs eventually flopped forward, Fulcrum poured over his captain's back like a ragdoll.

Misfire guided Krok's head to rest on his chest. "I told you," he snickered. He thumbed fluid and lipstick from off his mouth. "We were just too pretty to resist." He sighed, so damn proud of himself.

Fulcrum mumbled and huffed in reply.

"Okay," Misfire said, and reached around to pat Fulcrum's back, "short break, but I could use a little help."

Krok said nothing, taking Misfire's unit firmly in his hand. The jet wailed, clinging to both teammates. Despite his exhaustion, Krok worked the cord, hard; each twist of the wrist strategic and calculated (of course), and soon Misfire was howling, legs clamping around Krok.

Transfluid spilled between them, splashing sticky liquid on Misfire's abdomen, dribbling from his fist tight around the head of jet's unit.

Misfire gave a deep, appreciative sigh. "You weren't half-bad either, Krok," he snickered, playfully patting Krok's shoulders.

Krok grumbled something, ignoring the mess on his hand, beneath him; gently elbowed Fulcrum still slouched over his back. Fulcrum jolted with a quick "sorry, sorry;" he helped Krok on his knees, just enough room for him to pull out and wiggle away.

Once freed, Krok bonelessly dropped back on the berth, head pillowing one of Fulcrum's calves. Paneling clicked and locked weakly, the spill of the excess lubricant drying up.

Misfire stood, rolling his shoulders, kneading the tubing along his throat. He felt... pretty good. Not too tired, but--he got three steps across the suite before his knees locked, throwing him onto the ground.

"Lay down, Misfire," Krok grunted. "Your system needs... needs recalibrating. Relax. Lie--lie still. Let the rest of charge and energy circulate out of your--ah--circuitry."

"Yeah, thanks _Spinister_ ," Misfire snerked. Nonetheless he remained on the ground, legs stretched out. As his body settled, he quickly noticed the tubes of lipstick nearby. Grinning, he reached over, barely straining before snatching them up. The red tube was open, some of the paint inside flecked with dirt tracked and left in the room, a thin dangling ribbon of metal, scuffed off of something or other.

No problem, though, no problem.

Misfire dug out the messied bits until hitting a fresh layer beneath. He smiled, stood; watched as Fulcrum pulled Krok's head a little more comfortably up on his hip. "H-Hope things didn't get... uh..." He gulped. "... Weird-ish?"

"I wouldn't s-say that," Krok sighed, folding hands over his still-warm chest.

Misfire stopped at the bedside. "I wanna try somethin' before we hit the washracks," he insisted, holding up the tube smeared with red paint. Misfire hopped up, but stopped; said, "Dockinggg... now!"

Krok grunted, torn between amused and annoyed when Misfire straddled his hips, pinning him in place.

"I think the--the commander's had enough for now... today," Fulcrum grumbled. Not only for Krok's sake, but any future romps had not been disclosed to him in the original plan.

Misfire snickered. "Just somethin' I wanted to try, s'all," he insisted. He messily stabbed the edge of one finger in the make-up tube, swirling and kneading before it passed the first joint. He leaned over, two digits delicately pulling Krok's chin down an extra inch.

Krok looked between his teammate's mischievous smile and wad of paint on his finger coming slowly for his face. He tensed up again as Misfire started to... draw along the center of his maskplate. Clenching tongue between back teeth, and despite his serious expression, the art was anything but a masterpiece.

"There!" Misfire laughed, sitting back. He gingerly crossed the room, nearly tripping into a wall, before grabbing the nearest reflective object. A glass cube would work. He returned to his commander's berth, held he glass up to his face, close to eyes; tilted it up, just a little, so Krok was able to see the pair of puckered lips drawn on his mask. Not as clear or defined in the frosted glass, but it worked.

"Whatta say about keepin' it on for the rest of the day?" Misfire challenged, optics glimmering. "Me and pinhead, too. We'll act totally normal, pretend we have no idea what they're talking about."

"Considering the only remaining teammates who are not in on this little 'gag' consist of Crankcase, Spinister, and Grimlock... Is it worth the inevitable agitation, rage fits, and self-doubt leading into bouts of paranoia and diagnostic scans for hallucinations?" Krok asked, simply. He lightly touched one corner of his fake lips; looked at his finger with a pinprick of red.

... Well, okay, scratch that. "We couldn't get ya purple," Misfire apologized, shrugging, "sorry, boss. But red's good. Makes ya look fierce. Like you're going to eat someone."

Krok blinked. He made a sound akin to a snort and closed his optics. "We wash _everything_ off before returning to our shifts," he ordered.

"Most of mine's off anyway," Fulcrum replied. He went to stand, to go finish the job, but Krok was pulling him back down, holding him in place by an arm. "What is it?"

"Just wait a few more minutes. I've a request to ask before you clean up," Krok explained, optics flickering. Misfire made a baffled albeit goofy face as Krok pulled him over, too, until he and Fulcrum were leaning up close to one another.

"I liked that little bit at the beginning," Krok said, lax. If it could move, those puckered kissing lips would be morphing into an oily leer. "Care for a second demonstration?"

Fulcrum blinked, surprised.

Misfire elbowed his side. "Captain's orders, hero."

Fulcrum just... chuckled. "Yeah," he said, just as relaxed and carefree as his leader right now. He was the one yanking Misfire down by an antenna, smashing their lips together, and--well, things fell into their natural rhythm, and Krok openly admired the way slick yellow and red meshed and mingled and molded together.


End file.
